


The one behind

by cuulaiid



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Germany, Sherlolly - Freeform, Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-05-31 04:46:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6456463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuulaiid/pseuds/cuulaiid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly was left behind, as usual where the Consulting Detective was concerned. She, the one who notices the most gets always left in the dark. She's so tired of it all. But now it looks like something she should cherrish. After all, might as well be her advantage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Leave them all behind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MizJoely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/gifts).



> Hey! This is my first fic in English and I do hope you like it. It was the sort of idea you get after an all-nighter. It's about my favorite ship of BBC Sherlock. If you have any sugestions, I'd be happy to hear them, so, hit the comments!

* * *

 

She should be used by now, really.

With that in mind, the petite pathologist returned to her usual spot in the morgue, trying to work away all of her nerves in this body. The whole deal was taking him too long, and she wasn't happy about it. Molly was perfectly aware that she shouldn't be pinning after him now. She was supposed to be pissed off at the Consulting Git! It was a matter of self respect by now. He had the time to tell anyone about the pink elephant and he never thought of her. It hurt her more than she was willing to admit to anyone.

It had also been a while since she slapped the life out of him, after that he retaliated in the best way he knew when he pointedly deduced her broken engagement, since he acted like a complete and utter idiot with her, not bothering to even tell her important things such as his suicidal mission, of which she had to know through others and by a bloody accident! If it wasn't because of the habit that Lestrade had of telling people things without thinking them through, she'd still be under the stupid assumption that Sherlock was away from the morgue because of her mean right and left hook.

Her mind wandered off as she pulled the instruments in order for the post-mortem at hand. 

 

_Lestrade wasn't happy, to say the least. He kept on mumbling things while punching a text on his battered phone. She tried to keep a blank face, but something in her guts told her that his dark mood and face, red and pissed, had something to do with Sherlock. Specially as he was taking tentative looks at her, torn between pity and anger. But something was hovering over his expression, the sort of sadness and resignation you'd see when one is diagnosed with a chronic or even terminal disease. It was so plain now that she was actively looking for it. Snapping out of her gloves, she focused her attention on the detective while walking up to him. Something was wrong, oh so wrong. This wasn't the usual problem in Scotland Yard, it was deeper, much more serious. His scowl told her so._

_"What's wrong, Greg?" she said putting her hand over his arm in a soothing manner._

_"What?!" he chimed in a high pitched voice, then did a double take and shook his head at her "Nothing, Molly"_

_"I think you know better than to try to lie to my face" she said, almost in a whisper "What's going on?" she repeated, and saw the moment when he relaxed and sighed._

_"It's_ your _bloody Consulting Idiot! He's being nonsensical, as much as his brother! This whole abroad mission as punishment is not at all my idea of justice. That guy Sherlock killed was an arsehole and he had it coming!" he trailed off, explained every single detail of the Magnussen case. How Sherlock killed a guy in cold blood, surrounded by witnesses. How he was manipulating the government officials, the way his power was the knowledge he had over people. And no one told her any of it. She was shocked, to say the least._

_" Molly?" Greg prodded, looking anxiously at the pathologist that now had glassy eyes, and was blinking furiously._

_This... No one... She didn't... Her hurt was overwhelming. She was red in the face._ _The tears were stinging her eyes, her throat felt tighter than ever. It felt like a punch to her stomach. This had to be a lie! No one told her anything. The hurt was deeper than what she ever expected to be. It bubbled up to the level of murderous anger, her eyes stung greatly and the tears started to fall. She felt so weak, crying over not being important for the bunch of them, no one told her about this. And this was a great deal for her, for him, for everyone involved. Balling up her hands, she punched the slab with a force that startled Greg._

_"Molly?"_

_"NO ONE TOLD ME GREG!" she yelled, tears streaming freely down her face as she sobbed angrily "He murdered someone and not a single one of you lot bothered to tell me anything! And 'abroad mission'? Please! You and I_ know _that's exile!"_

_"I thought that he..." he said in an apologetic whisper, twirling his hands together nervously._

_"Well, he did NOT. And you didn't either. Not even John or Mary!" she shot while stalking over to him, looking much more menacing than any murderer that he'd ever seen walking in NSY._

_"I'm so sorry Molls-" she shot her hand up and silenced him with the motion._

_"You are only regretting telling me, so save it" the tears were no longer flowing, and she was so angry she could murder him, all of them. She fucking knew how!_

_"Molly..."_

_"Just get out. GET! THE! FUCK! OUT!" she screamed, while jabbing his chest with her hands, pushing him towards the door "LEAVE NOW!"_

 And now, three and a half months after the Fauxriarty scandal, after it had been reduced to mere hallway chatter, she was still hoping for him to stalk on her lab flaunting himself in the ridiculously sexy way he used to, just to mess with them all, to appease his drama-queen sense of importance. He was _such_ a prima donna. Why did she loved this guy? This consulting nonsense? It beat her logic every time when Molly tries to figure it out. But then again, love wasn't easy to explain, to give a reason. And even so, she tried. Was the way he moved around flaunting his slender physique? It surely had something to do with the way his hair curled around the nape of his neck. Or the smell of sandalwood that he left behind.   

"Maybe it's time to move forward" she mumbled to herself, snapping out of her memories. She sighed with a sad sense of culmination, and whispered to the body on the slab "To take a leap of faith... Off the building if you might". She scoffed at herself. This wasn't a thing that she would even dare to joke about in the past. But she was oh so tired of not daring, of staying in the place where being proper was required. To her, it seemed like the universe was trying to mess with her in the most ridiculous way imaginable, and she had to find a way to laugh it off, so she was known for having a morbid sense of humor. It was as if having it would guarantee some protection from all the death in her life.

All of which reminded her that she was a providential embodiment of her profession. That regardless of her good nature, Molly Hooper was always the mousy little pathologist with little to no life outside St. Barts. She was dead for everyone, as much as the bodies she did the post-mortems on. And as she probed around in the body, she pondered if her life was always going to be like her work. Limited to a basement, rooted in one place. Buried, if you might. She chuckled at that. How damning it was to find joy in the silly things, in the nonsense that saved her from going crazy in this place.

It also provided her with a sense of cleanness of mind, of protection from all the horrible sights that entered the path lab every single day. Helping her do her work correctly, allowing her to ignore the gore-y details while investigating, all to get her findings published with her own merits. She was good, damnit! This pinning after Sherlock was going to be the death of her. At a certain point, she hoped for him to barge through the doors, to acknowledge her as much more than just the one that saw him when no one else would. But now, weeks after being left behind, in the dark of it all, it was dawning on her how much the amazing Dr. Hooper was really worth to him. "Little to nothing, Miss" she whispered to herself.

With her skill set she'd be more appreciated in some other path lab anywhere in this damn world. Her published works, all those investigations one-upped many of the other pathologist resumés. She was talented in a way that made the guys in her profession wince. Not even the gore and blood and stench of the crimes managed to get her off her track, to make her sick.

Today, while elbow deep into Mrs. Romhain chest cavity the idea formed behind her chocolate eyes. Maybe than was what she really needed. To go away from all of this at once. And she damn well knew she needed her break, the lot of them she'd been saving up because he might need her assistance, so why go away? Vacations sounded marvelous. Salt water, sun, and sand between her toes sounded amazing. She knew exactly who owed her big enough as to cut all the strings that tied her to London.

After pondering the pros and cons, she was completely sure of her choice. It was easy. She was here because of _him_. And now that he wasn't even in the picture, why stay? She'd been crazy for him long enough to feel like utter crap. She deserves better than a guy who willingly goes into radial silence because he isn't allowed in her lab after being particularly imbecile to her, or to sulk after her denial to get him body parts for one of his obviously fake smiles. This past weeks proved her that much. She didn't matter much to him. Flicking through her contact list she found the British Government. After a stupidly unpleasant chatter with Mycroft, she was finally cashing in his favor for saving Sherlock after the jump, and taking her vacations. "All expenses covered, Miss Hooper" the replay of the older Holmes reminded her. Molly was very aware that she was being someone she wasn't at all, getting things trough machinations, but she knew that this would be one of the last enjoyments she'd have for a while, so might as well go overboard.

The guilt will be dealt with some time later.

She was left behind the veil and alone, oblivious to anything, and now she's going to leave them all behind.


	2. Auf Wiedersehen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That sardonic smile of hers had to mean something! He could read amusement, plastered all over her countenance. Tantalizing him. Clearing his throat, and shedding away from ludicrous train of romantic idiocy that was roaming in the back of his head, he stared at her. Do say whatever you have to say, damned woman.  
> "You are an ignorant of human emotions." Well, that was unexpected. He scowled and her smile grew wider, but somehow bitter.  
> "And you are a former assassin. Now that we've moved on from of stating the obvious, what do you know?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I've started work today and that gives me an insane amount of time to write. So, in that spirit, I'm hoping that by the end of this week I have more chapters waiting up. This is going to be a long one, albeit a filling one. Also, we'll have the wonderful Morstan pounding sense into people! Yay! I also made a reference for a famous movie quote, hands up if you see it!

* * *

_As the phone beeped the ringing tones, she almost relented on her intentions to chuck it all out and remain in London. But her more determined, steely side surfed over her second thoughts and in two heartbeats, she was back with the initial resolve. "This is what I need, what I will do" and she went on with it like a mantra of sorts. At last, the pick up tone. She could almost see the Iceman wince at her, scowling at the unexpected and surely unimportant sort of call she must have meant for the the British Government._

_"Hello. Sorry Miss Hooper, I was rather occupied. How may I be of help?" He said, sounding how bored with her call as she thought he'd be. Sod him._

_"Mycroft, I want to cash in my favor."_

_"It is due, isn't it?" He muttered, and if she didn't know better, sounding amused at her request. Or maybe at the fact that she had grown a spine to ask for it, and it made her feel warmth and not in a good way._

_"Yes, it is." She sighed finally, clenching her other hand in a tight fist as to give herself a bit more of resolve "The thing is that I need you to get me out."_

_"Out of what exactly?" Mycroft knew where this conversation was heading of course, but she had to utter it, to request what he knew she would ask of him eventually. If she didn't, he'd consider working his way into getting her sainthood. Maybe her own selfless religion. But now, he would not make the choice for her. After all, his brother would be livid and annoyed at the same time were this all his doing. He listened, intently. "Out of Bart's. London. Britain, if you might. I need out."_

_"It's not an easy favor Miss Hooper, for you know that my dear brot..." The force of her answer cut him before he could end the word._

_"I know damn well that it is as easy for you to control this country as it is to get me what I want, so don't fool me. Go with your fuckery somewhere else."_

_Oh dear. Was this the same mousy pathologist that his brother took shameless advantage of? Didn't seem like it to the Iceman, who had the most flummoxed gesture his assistant had seen on her boss in... Well, forever. "Miss Hooper..."_

_"Shut up, I'm not done yet. You will talk when I finish, OK?" He was perplexed. And at loss for words. This was really a turn of events, unexpected and completely out of the character he had put on her since their first kidnapping. "Are we clear?"_

_"Do continue" he said, trying his best not to give away the smirk that was gracing his lips. His brother had missed out on such a fiery goldfish. Although that title was starting to be unfitting to her. "I need out. As soon as possible for you. I only want to take my cat and little of my things. Start fresh somewhere else. With the same opportunities I have here." She had resolve. And that was uncharacteristic of her. If he didn't knew better, he'd say she was acting. But this was something very different. It was steel. And he had rarely seen that in her. It was interesting, to say the least._

_"Work, teach and publish, I assume."_

_"Yes. All that."_

_"How soon do you want this done, Miss Hooper?" his assistant was already typing furiously in her phone, no doubts tackling the task at hand. After all the kidnapping she'd been a part of, regarding the pathologist, they had actually developed a sort of care for each other, not a friendship but the smallest of kindness between them. He was entirely glad at that. "As soon as possible"_

_"Will do." He was about to hung up when a breath interrupted him._

_"And Mycroft..."_

_"Yes?" He asked tentatively. It was a rare occurrence and she was all but oblivious to the fact that the British Government was at a losing stance and face with her. He had a debt of gratitude, and new found respect for the petite pathologist that his brother preferred, much to his chagrin. It had something to do with the fact that she was very good at nervous baking, but that wasn't the matter now._

_"It's Doctor Hooper" and at that, she hung up. The smirk he had on his face grew until it was a full-on smile, a picture Anthea didn't get to see quite often. If Ever. It was also a picture many people would pay millions to have. He stood up, still wearing a smile albeit a faint one. He turned around and faced the portrait of the Queen and murmured something so softly that had she not been trained so well, would have been missed entirely. "Not a goldfish at all"._

 

* * *

 

Yes, this was what she wanted. Wasn't it? Surely she'll be happy to see herself out and about in the world. The thing is that she wasn't even remotely happy. It had been a month and a half since that infamous call to Mycroft Holmes and now she was on her way to teaching and practicing pathology at a not-so-little German hospital. It was a dream to have a chance in here! She _should_ be jumping up and down! It was the one place Molly dreamed of since she set her heart in Pathology. Sure, Saint Bartholomew's Hospital was a respectable institution, but the "Institute of Pathology Campus Charité Mitte Rudolf-Virchow-Haus" was a dream spot to be on. It was the leading intutu

She was a bit rusty on her German, but she'd been practicing it since about a week after the now infamous and embarrassingly commanding call she made to the Older Holmes, that she got the papers on her new position. She was ecstatic to say the least. And as she wasn't that far behind in her German, after a few weeks in the country, she could all but fit in perfectly. Of the things she left behind she didn't give much thought. Yes, she'll be visiting her father's grave less regularly, but that wasn't what made her chest flutter with some anxiety of sorts. It was an ache. She was saying goodbye to her home. And not the flat that Anthea kindly offered to store for her after the leave, not the bulky wardrobe that was still hanging in her closet, not any of that. It was the immaterial that was crushing her insides. And even so, she refused to cry. She was not and would never be the same person she was here.

Molly refused to bee seen again as mousy. She was beyond that phase of her life. It was something that hit her squarely on the brow when they all refused to inform her about... No. She was not going to go there again. This resolve meant that she should hold on to great things, that made her feel better. To stop self-pity, to love herself. And this city held memories that she'd rather not store on the back of her mind all day. All the heartbreak, loneliness, unrequited love and silly, oh so silly and relentless hope . This was her _new_ start. And with a ticket in the pocket of the black, satiny and very expensive purse that Mycroft's PA had given her as a farewell, she waltzed into the non-descript black car, never to look back.

* * *

 

 

The shrill tone of the female voice who sounded way too close for his comfort woke him up with a startle. Suddenly the scar on his stomach ached faintly and he knew that it was the former assassin turned housewife who was screaming bloody murder in his ear. With a groan, he sat upright on the couch where he had been slouching for... He stared intently at the shadows forming on his flat by the window light. Four hours. That was a record in this chair. He was still groggy from sleep and didn't understood the shouts proffered his way.

  
"Mary, you are going to wake the corpses. Do shut up" he mumbled.

  
"You damn right I will wake them up!" She screamed while throwing something his way. Even half sleep, his reflexes made him turn away slightly to avoid the unidentified object that clattered behind the leather chair. It was surely some food that she brought him. The Watson's were all too homey for him, but Mary sure did know how to cook. He'd been wishing for her cuisine for months now. And it was spilled behind him, lost forever. He winced internally when his stomach decided to announce his need for sustent. 

  
"What are you doing here in the first place? Mrs. Hudson let you in?". He was not happy with not-his-housekeeper. She'd been strangely furious at him, but refused to give a reason. He'd have to butter her up again, but that had to wait. Now he had to stare down at his best friend's wife. She had absolutely no right to wake him up. Specially not now, when he needed to decompress and calm down after the god awful treatments he had to endure.

  
"She didn't have to. I have a particular set of skills, thank you very much" she pointed, proudly. He wasn't sure how to interpret that, but the words she chose to use...

  
"I know I've heard that one before..." he said stapling his hands below his chin. 

  
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you move your arse off that chair and do something!" How did this woman jumped from emotion to emotion was still a mistery to him. And he was a consulting genius. He loved and hated this woman. She reminded him of Irene Adler. Not that he would ever dare to say that to her. It was not a great idea, even he understood that about the female population.

  
"About what?" He was totally awake now. And confused.

   
"Molly!" She chimed, sounded as exasperated as he was. 

   
"What does Molly have to do with anything?" 

  
"What does...?!" The murdering sharpness of the tone in which she screamed made him look at her intently. Warily. Whatever this was, he suddenly was at loss for clues, and that didn¿t happen often. He took in her expression, from sheer annoyance and bad temper, to calm understanding. It seemed like puzzle pieces falling into place. Her whole countenance softened "You don't know".

  
"Mary, as much as I love you, right now what comes out of your mouth makes absolutely no sense."

  
"You don't know" she repeated, exasperated but clearly not pissed "This is unexpected." She mumbled at herself, with a sort of sing-song that made him feel uneasy.  
"What don't I know? Mary this is ridic..." She silenced him with a flick of her hand.

"You don't know about Molly."

"I know everything that has to do with her, Mary." he said, exasperated. He 

  
She stared at him. He hated her ability to read his moods.

"You obviously don't know! Surely you wouldn't be here if you did" she smiled, and if wasn't a trick. It was a candid smile, like the one mothers give to their child when they are being particularly dense. Sherlock hated that smile. He was not good at respecting emotions, but he knew when he was being patronized and it didn't sit well with him.  One thing was sure, he was not in the mood for this. 

  
"What. About. Molly?" He punctuated every word, utterly tired of the nonsense that this woman brought into his living space. He needed calm, peace and she was all but that. She was pulling his strings, he should know better than to show his emotions in such a careless way. He regained his composure and stared back. This was not a time for letting Morstan win the war of powers.

   
"She's gone."

  
He stood up with a jump that startled Mary. She looked at him and saw it all displayed on his Byronic face. The flashes of theories behind the detective's eyes, the fact that he wasn't seeing her anymore, his eyes staring right through her. She smirked. That was the reaction she expected at the news. It was not beyond her to learn and see what others didn't. It had been her job, and one she was very good at. And she was adored by this guy, her husband's best friend and now, the first child of her heart-"She's not dead, Sherlock."

  
"I figured that much already" he huffed. After all the information about her past came to light, he'd never been able to deduce her properly. The doubts about his deductions on her, and admiration at her ability to hide her past vexed him, and he did his best to refrain from being cross with her, lest of a bullet that might now be so carefully put in place. "What do you mean she's gone?"

"I know you just got home today and all, but you couldn't have possibly not know that she's gone!"

  
"Mary..." He tried his best to tower over her, to sound menacing but she just smiled. That damn pitying smile, charged with commiseration. On, why did she had to be so good at aggravating him!

  
"Hush now dear" she said, so happily it disgusted him. "She quit her job and moved out from London. Transferred to another hospital somewhere else".

He... How didn't he knew? Her dotting husband once told her about his way of processing information, and with that, she identified the blankness of his look and the rapid blinking as his buffering. Since he'd surely be out of it in a pinch, she sat down in John's chair to wait. She could almost hear the workings of his brain.

   
While she stared, he was lost inside his head, roaming trough theories and data that he didn't knew he held about her. This was way out of character for _his_ pathologist! She was in love with him... With London! With the CITY! Whatever impulsed him to push himself over at the top of her affections was now bathing the rest of this incoherent train of thought. And oh he hated to be in that nutter state! He shook his head over that and focused on more important aspects of her.  
She was _his_ pathologist... No! Not his, no! A great pathologist! An asset to Saint Bartholomew's Hospital! How could they let her go just like that!  
"How could you let her go..." An amused voice that sounded a lot like John's chimed in. He growled, at it and at himself.

It was however, very much true that he had done nothing but make a living hell out of the life for all the personnel of the pathology department. And she had been on the end of many asails. But there had to be an ulterior reason for her actions. She had endured a lot from him, and she also played the most important part on his fall. He owed her his life, and she'd been the anchor for him, the only one besides the annoying prick he had for brother that knew that his casket was filled with sand. She'd been the ultimate tool in Moriarty's demise, whether or not he'd ever know about it.

  
She was in love with him. That much he knew and was sure of it. And he was humbled by the intensity of it, because after all he had done nothing but inflict her pain and damage in all the ways imaginable because he knew that she would be there regardless. And she shouldn't be pinning on him! As it was, she deserved better than an addict. Not that he ever let his brilliant mind go that way. _Never._ He never thought of her in _that_ way. Not a romantic notion towards Molly Hooper. She had not been on his mind in the middle of his two years undercover. NO! And little did she had to do with the seconds he worked through when Mary shot him. Molly had not been of help at all.

"Ha! Try to convince someone else of THAT!"

  
"Do shut up, John!" He groaned. This little voice what waltzed over his mind palace surely was making things harder.

  
Regardless of that, she was very much enchanted with her job. And very good at it, in fact. He pondered then, why did she leave? Maybe some sleeping faction of his nemesis network was threatening her? No. It couldn't be. Mycroft would make sure she'd be safe, he could be a pain in the bollocks, but he was bound to her by his promises. He was grateful for her role in his fall, and offered assistance whenever she needed it. He secured her spot in her job, lifting the prohibition she had on the hospital because of her involvement with him after his supposed fall from public grace.  
He growled himself out of the reverie and stared at Mary. She had to know why this happened. That sardonic smile of hers had to mean something! He could read amusement, plastered all over her countenance. Tantalizing him. Clearing his throat, and shedding away from ludicrous train of romantic idiocy that was roaming in the back of his head, he stared at her. _Do say whatever you have to say, damned woman._

"You are an ignorant of human emotions." Well, that was unexpected. He scowled and her smile grew wider, but somehow bitter.

  
"And you are a former assassin. Now that we've moved on from stating the obvious, what do you know?" he said while sitting down in his well worn leather chair. She stared at him, with an scowl of her own. She seemed to be at a loss for words, at least kind ones. Her eyes were burning with something he could not point out precisely.

"She left because of you, obviously."

  
"What do you mean by 'obviously'? I have not seen her in months! She didn't even know that I was going to be exiled" And she stared intently at him, waiting for something to click, for the pin to drop on him. Because he was a smart guy where science was concerned, but with humans...

"My point precisely." She said in a sing-song that generated a dramatic sigh out of his Cupid's bow lips.

  
"And what does that have to do with her leaving?" He clasped his hands behind his back, trying to look regal but failing all together because of his aubergine pajama trousers, untamed hair and an askew dressing gown. She chuckled, earning an scowl.

"Everything" she said, self sufficed. Oh he adored this woman, for she was the love of his best friend's life and his dear friend, but she made no sense sometimes.

"Paying social visits to Molly Hooper is not my job." He said, and tried to turn away from her but was held in the staring match by a sound that came from the back of her throat. It scared him just a bit. It was way too commanding for his liking. His scowl deepened, and he remained in place.

  
"She left because your Grace didn't informed her about anything" and the intonation for the last part was all too similar to a reproach. "She grew tired of your shit, Sherlock. You lost her." Her tone was peppered with something that he hadn't heard in a long time, but that Sherlock knew: Condescending pity.


	3. The penny drop.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Don't. Please, I'm not pushing."
> 
> "But..."
> 
> "No, no. You look sad. That's not good. Let's talk about something more... Happy. Like the new set of experiments on frozen bodies we have scheduled for next week!" And all of Molly's sorrows seemed to banish after that, because the conversation between them never met an awkward stop and she all but forgot the sadness that overcame her when the memories of all that went down back in London took hold of her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hello! I'm really happy with the reception of this fic so far, so I'm going to give you a little treat: ANOTHER CHAPTER IN THE SAME WEEK! It's not angst-y or anything, but it will get there eventually. Read on! I'm actually having a rough time choosing chapter titles, so if any of you could give me a hand I'd appreciate it. Also... Anyone knows how to get a beta reader? I might need one.

* * *

After the initial shock of leaving a her motherland and all she'd known for most of her life, she'd been surprised to find herself happy at her newfound freedom. Not like being a specialist registrar at Bart's had been a sort of prison, but the wholeness of the time she'd been there, it felt like it for her, at least now. Mike Stamford had been marvellously willing to depart from her when she informed him of her decision, and she had the strong suspicion of Mycroft had something to do with it, which made her feel weird to say the least. It wasn't always that one could have some sort of familiarity with someone with such power, and it was an eerie sensation. She'd always been the sort of reliable person that you wouldn't expect to make such hasty decisions, but then again, she was trying to shed that person away, even if it was the hardest thing Molly would ever face in her life. Although the doctors that welcomed her into her new job found her as capable and trustworthy as her resume and references stated, there was still some sort of reluctance from herself to open up to them even in the slightest, at least until now. And they had tried to make her feel at home for the time she'd been around, the darlings.

Now, three months later, and having severed her ties to her London 'acquaintances' except for Meena, because God bless her she was her only 'real' friend there, it wasn't really doing her any good to remain so closed up, so secretive and timid with people, albeit happy with her position. All that was going through her mind while she was waiting in front of the doors of the Institute of Pathology. This was her first voluntary outing, the first one she agreed to. Since most of the personnel were of various countries with little in common as far as language, she found that inside her work environment, it was little the German she had to speak. It was a bit of a disappointing situation, but the rest of the city wasn't so keen on switching entirely to her native tongue, to suit her desires. As she tried to remember how to say a certain phrase in that guttural language, the doors opened to reveal a broad shouldered doctor, with pale blonde hair, bright green eyes and freckles on his chiseled face. He smiled at her absentmindedly.

"Fraü Hooper" he said, bringing her back to the reality outside her mind.

"Dr. Herzog!" She screamed, a bit more than startled at not realizing he was so close. " I didn't—I..." She stuttered, too scared to pull together her thoughts. It wasn't like she had all but forgotten the fact that at some point in her life, she had a security detail and that a murderous mastermind was behind her. Every single time something like this happened, she was reminded of those times. It made her shudder and the bright eyed doctor that was in front of her didn't have to be informed of such times. So the pathologist straightened her back and took a calming breath to gather her thoughts before speaking. "I'm sorry. I was startled for a moment, Dr. Herzog."

"Fraü Hooper, I've already told you, call me Johannes" She thought it for a second. This doctor had been nothing but kind and polite towards her, and was asking her now to address him with a familiarity that she didn't have with any other colleague in this country. _In for the kill, I suppose_ she though to herself and let a encouraging smile form on her lips. "Johannes it is then!" And as a grin started to spread across his features, she held up a hand "But—" and the grin quickly became a worried expression "You'd have to call me Molly from now on. Deal?"

"Yes, Frau... Molly, it's a deal."

Sometime later, while walking towards a coffee shop, she thought it might have been a little straightforward and daring to talk to him like that, but it's been a long time since she felt like it was a good thing to try to give some trust to anyone. Also at this point, it was too late to take it back, and she really didn't mind at all. The doctor had been keen in showing her around the institute along with the other newcomer and even went as far as sketching her a rough draft of where she could get groceries among other things. He'd been very kind with her and for that she was incredibly grateful. It was not a common occurrence and she was quickly smiling at him when he said a smart remark on some subject of investigation.

The whole staff of the institute were apt people, with minds hell bent on making investigations and papers, on learning all there was to learn about death and it's consequences on human bodies. The morbid humor she has was well appreciated, because they all shared that. And there wasn't a grimace when someone brought up a gruesome subject in the middle of lunch hour. She was as comfortable as she'd ever been on a place and yet...

"—Isn't it?" He was looking at her, expectantly. She felt the blush of embarrassment flush her cheeks.

"I'm sorry I was..."

"Thinking of England. Yah, yah, I know" he smiled and stopped in front of a cozy looking shop. "Us immigrant tent to do that when we first move. But after some time, it goes away"

"What goes away?" she asked, bewildered. How did he...

"The longing of our land." The fair haired doctor said, holding the door open for her. And then she remembered that he wasn't native German, although he'd been here for most of his adult life as far as she knew. Dr. Herzog—Johannes, she reminded herself, was Swiss, and moved here to study medicine then remained in the country, specializing on pathology and being one of the most brilliant men on his field of investigation. "It must be hard for you, still. That's what you need interaction with others Frau, to get your mind out of that." The soft roll of his native language was difficult to hide and she found it endearing.

"I suppose that's true" she mumbled as they toured among the occupied tables to one free close to a window. Germany was beautiful and it buzzed with life, much like London, but it had a different aura, a mood that was so rich and lovely that she found herself loving the town a bit more with each passing day.

"It is!" He said after pulling a chair for her. "I was very young and quite sad to be away from my home and family, but then I immersed myself on the life and all the sorrow passed"

"I'm still trying to get adjusted to life without..." Molly sighed and froze, because she sounded more heartbroken than she meant to, and she regretted immediately. Her colleague didn't have to carry the burden of her problems. Still, there was something about him that made her feel at ease even with the situation that was unfolding. He stared at her a gave a reassuring smile, which calmed her nerves a bit.

"I feel something else, but I'm patient enough to know that I should not force anyone to reveal their life's story."

"I... Yes. There's something else. But it's all too recent and I do not want to speak of it" she blurted, unsure as why the words even left her mouth. He felt like calmness, and that was the first thing she learned to appreciate in him. Picking on the hem of her well loved cherry jumper, she stared at the table while her face flushed.

"Don't worry, Frau." _But_ _he is so kind_ ' and she sighed, _It might be what I need, to talk it through_. "I..." She started to talk, hesitant as to where to begin, because it was something so hard to talk, even to herself. Besides, she was going to sound like a love sick puppy for the Consulting Detective, a scorned woman because of him, of her so-called. It was depressing even to think of it, lest to say it to some other soul.

"Don't. Please, I'm not pushing."

"But..."

"No, no. You look sad. That's not good. Let's talk about something more... Happy. Like the new set of experiments on frozen bodies we have scheduled for next week!" And all of Molly's sorrows seemed to banish after that, because the conversation between them never met an awkward stop and she all but forgot the sadness that overcame her when the memories of all that went down back in London took hold of her mind.

 

* * *

 

 There were times in people's lives where you could actually feel the weight of disappointment that other people had in you, the fact that you were the reason for it felt troublesome to say the least. In Sherlock's case, it was a steady feeling and one he didn't particularly like. He grew out of pure pride in himself, the honing of his skills and deductive reasoning was the main objective of his life. It was the reality, and he would never be happy being admired for his ability to make friends. Or keeping them, for that matter. John and Mary didn't spend more than the necessary time with him, even went as far as denying him access to their daughter, of which he was, go figure _why_ , godfather. Mrs. Hudson at first refused to get him tea in the morning, she was that vexed with him. And now, when she brought it, banged the tray on the table with an annoying huff and stormed off mumbling something incoherent. Gavin talked to him like he was a criminal, and he was for all that mattered, but the detective inspector hadn't been this angry with him in all his years and it was just out of character for him. He paid little mind to that, because they would come around eventually. They always did, although this time it was taking them longer. 

It had also been quite some time since he'd known that Molly left England. But he hadn't put his mind to it. Not really. And that took a conscious effort of his part. As far as he knew, she just left to some hospital far away. And all his thinly veiled inquiries as to her whereabouts were met with a stern look, dismissed even before he could manipulate the people who could hold some information. He wasn't going to deny that her departure made him uneasy, but he was a proud sociopath, he didn't have the time for caring it wasn't an advantage. Yet, he got his homeless network to log into the records of Bart's, but they came up clean. It frustrated him, specially since Billy was being particularly insistent on calling Molly his "Missus", and he had no reason for it whatsoever. Also, the personnel of  Bart's didn't know anything about it, and most of them didn't even paid mind to her leaving. They either took her for granted or dismissed her entirely, as far as he prodded around. 

Mike Stamford didn't know where she went, just that she entered his office with a resolute look on her face that he had never seen and renounced her post swiftly. And he wasn't going to beg her to stay, just wished her well and moved on. The doctor wasn't the bumbling idiot Sherlock though him to be, and he added one pathologist less a consulting detective plus a Moriarty threat and the result was a fleeting pathologist. He put an apt registrar on her post and moved on. There was also the fact that he had been told of her upcoming resignation letter and all the reluctance he could've had to depart from her was shoved aside. There were some higher influences on the matter and he didn't want to meddle, although something told him that as usual with her, it had something to do with the Belstaff sleuth. 

Sherlock, on the other hand, was wondering if Stamford was some sort of hidden mastermind while he cab pulled in the curb in front of 221B. He paid little attention to the man and he could be another sort of underhand Moriarty. _That's impossible_ he snorted at the thought. But, he was still in a pickle, as John would say. Because the man said nothing! Not that he asked directly, not by any means because it . Even after the trouble that followed the day when Sherlock was chastised by the inept pathologist that took after his specialist registrar, thus, he reduced the man to pretty much nothing with his deductions. Mike had been livid and cross at him because he didn't have a more recommended pathologist to take after Molly and he should not treat what-his-name that badly because it was, after all, what he'd have to get used to. 

And the detective didn't planed to get used to him _AT ALL_. As much as he liked to hid the fact that it affected him, it was ghastly to think of a home away from home without her. He didn't appreciated going in there, and his Mind Palace was shifting more and more every day because of it. Pulsing with the need of her expertise. She was good at her job. Not just good, no, _great_ , marvelous even! And no one had come even close to that term in the eyes of Sherlock Holmes. It was a miracle, like petty normal people would say, and he was annoyed with himself because he was even thinking of it. Plopping in his chair after an exhausting day of solving less amusing cases but that alleviated a bit of the boredom, he put his hands below his chin. At last, with grudging pain, he was going to use the one thing he dreaded the most to get information.

As he dialed the most annoying person he'd ever had the discomfort to know, some wheels started turning. Molly's records where sealed. There wasn't any information as to where she was now. And that was hard to do singlehandedly. It would require a proverbial mastermind to hide her that way, to get her out of the country without a trace and to sever all of her connections to the Motherland...

Oh.

_OH._

There was always something. This time he was going to _murder him_.


End file.
